From Brother to Brother
by mooglestookmyheart
Summary: A trip that never finished and a letter that ended everything, a trip with a destination no one knew and a letter of resignation. A resignation that led to a wound, a last gift, something to remember, from  brother to brother, a wound that led us to this.


AN:okay, so this is my first shot at hetalia. Please, while reading it, don't forget that it is still unbeta'd and only a prologue. I'm hoping on any kind of reviews, really.

Also, if you are interested in beta'ing this story or know anyone who might be, please contact me!

Disclaimer: Own nothing.

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><p><strong>From Brother to Brother<strong>

**Prologue**

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><p>It was just another summer night. There were no clouds on the sky and there was no fog surrounding the atmosphere, there were no light on the streets and there was no noise in the air. There were only a few scars, scattered all over the darkness of the sky, shinning brightly, forming friendships and a proud, but lonely, moon that might have been half, that might have been full. A calm night with a cool breeze roaming about, lulling children to sleep and a smell, of freshly cut grass, one always lingering after a downpour, floating in the air. And then there was a soft sound, a noise that has-over the years- been described as sweet or disturbing or distracting or even annoying, a song sung for centuries on no end, a few cicadas telling their tale again and again and again…so yes, it was another usual, regular summer night.<p>

The city, or rather the small country town we would be watching, at least for those few, but nevertheless important, minutes was the same as every such city on every such night. The deep silence, even with the soft chirping now and then, could be heard as loud as a marching band on a parade or a thunder during a storm. The people, the locals, had been long gone, taken by Morpheus to another world- one where every dream became reality and every reality a dream. But that was there and here was only a road. A simple and long and wide and, somewhat, empty road with cars parked on its sides, forming a- as a poet would probably say- never ending line of carriages, each one with a different form and colour and cut, waiting for the daylight to come and signal a new day, with them resuming their duties to their masters. A striking line until, gradually, it became scarce and eventually disappeared, giving its place to an old park. Then the situation forces us to abandon dreams and face reality.

The park was filled with bodies; bodies of men and bodies of women, old and young, white and black, people who chose to run, escape a fate they didn't chose or wish for or people made to run, by circumstances, by force, by power. They were all over the place: on those old and rusty swing, where even the paint fell onto the ground, revealing bronze metal, or on wet, moldy benches with wildlife sprouting between the wood. Still, however wet and rusty and broken and old it was a place to sleep, a place to spend the night with much wanted company, a pleasing fire and no fear. And for many, this haven begun resembling more and more of a home.

And, so far, everything went along with the locals' wishes, everything followed that disturbing normality of the town. But then, he appeared. A man, possibly a foreigner if one could judge from his looks, one that may have just arrived or may have waited 'till dawn, 'till midnight to foolishly ignore the order and disrupt the peace, to defy the city's rules and, instead, follow his own, was walking down and through the road, between the still carriages. Strands of light brown hair clung, wet, to his neck- wet whether from the rain of his own sweat we shall never know- and hugged a lean, soft face with strange golden eyes and pink lips. A lean body successfully accompanied his face; not too short yet not too tall, not too thin yet not too muscular. He was a fine young man, dressed with dark blue slacks, a pale white t-shirt and a grey, woolen jacket hung on his shoulders, an aura mixed with confidence and fear on each of his steps.

It was not hard to point and recognize his feelings. From his ling and fast strides to the slight trembling of his knees to the constant flickering of his fingers, the speed of his ragged breath to the rosy colour on his cheeks. Confusion, anxiety, fear, regret, hope, determination, confidence; they were everywhere: the eyes, the mouth, the arms, the legs, the toes, the fingers, the smiles, the laughs, the breaths. Everywhere and all revealed for the world to see as if ancient artifacts on a museum, a book at a library, a painting on a gallery.

A sad thought, a sad fact, a sad sight to witness. An old boy, a young man, someone, a person stuck in between because of life , because of wrong choices others made, a generation gone bad. Yet, someone choosing to fight instead of giving up, even if that fight is against the world and more, even if that fight is already lost. A sight accompanied with a strange feeling, a mix of confusion and sadness, a dose of nostalgia all with a touch of hope.

(Guessing the man's fate would be pointless. We do not guess no more. We know. He would eventually reach that place- yes, that place. The one we all dream about, we all hope to find and yet, the one we all deny. He would bid his wage, make his bet, seal the deal and wait. Then he would pay the price. –because no one won, not against the devil. Many have tried before he came , many have walked through this same road, between this same carriages. Men and women greater than he'd ever dream to be and all had the same pitiful end. We know that and he know it , too.- that would be it. He'd never leave, not alive and certainly not dead.)

And the man, the boy keeps walking down the long and wide and, somewhat, empty road. The pace is now slow- patience and a clear mind are allies needed in any situation and the young man knows it- allowing him to think over the past, understand the present and plan the future. His long and fast strides have changed to slow, lazy steps as he walks to the right side, never once stopping. Not when the illusion is over and not when reality- someone's else reality- hits. His destination is clear and so are his instructions. The town will not forgive rogues, will not forgive traitors. When the time is right, though, he does stop, defying the rules once again.

The park is gone, the houses have disappeared and the road is finished. The line has been left behind, forgotten until the daylight arrives and the fire has almost gone out by now. Before him a fairytale is being unraveled. A thick forest with old, massive trees, small bushes, grass-tall and short-, flowers bloomed and waiting for the sun, rocks in may shapes. With animals sleeping and animals hunting, a massive union of green and brown and grey and black and white and red and blue and sometimes yellow. And it went on and on never ending, never sleeping. A community far more different, far more simple, far more fair.

He does not enter, not yet. This is the point where rules and order have no power over him. So he does something never done before, something strange, elaborate and yet simple. He takes a phone out of his pocket, types something, picks out the card and then throws the device away. The man hasn't moved yet, not a step outside the town and into the forest. The peculiar acts continue with him revealing a plastic envelope from his right back pocket and placing the card inside, before sealing it.

Then he goes back. Back through the road and between the carriages- though this time on the left side- and towards the park. He does not stop until he is in, for the first and last time. With calculating eyes, the man searches for a spot, moving as quiet as possible, from the swing to the benches to the trees. Nothing works. The swings are ready to crumble, the benches to fall, the trees may be cut and the humans may leave. But there was a pond. A natural water spot to the west end of the park, build with bricks only to beautify it. Even if the bricks were to be destroyed the pond would remain. The young man approaches with fast steps. He falls to his knees and starts digging using his hands as shovels, dirtying his already dirty clothes, until the hole is deep enough to bury the envelope.

No eyes saw the man leaving the park and hurrying to the forest.

Inside, the forest was even more beautiful. Beautiful but –especially in the dead of the night- deadly. The trees became giants, the rocks sharp knives. The bushes nested beasts and the animals turned into predators. One wrong step would have you left in a pit hole, one loud sound waking a herd of beasts. The fairytale was slowly turning into a psychedelic nightmare.

And in the heart of this well thought trap, his destination: a house, surrounded by trees, small enough to remain hidden from the normal eye, yet large enough to comfortably shelter a small family. Normal, with white brick walls, brown rooftop and brown little windows, plants crawling all over the walls, a little yard with handmade, wooden swings and beautifully bloomed flowers. All normal except for the door. Deep red, as if painted with blood, it stood wide open, waiting for its visitor.

The young man changed his stance, shut off his feeling, calmed his breath and brought a cold smirk to his blank face. With, now, confident steps, he entered.

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><p>He was in pain. It hurt in a way he had never been hurt before. His body burned all over, as if the fires of hell itself danced on his flesh, and his heart ached in a cruel, hateful way, one he wished no one would ever have to experience. The wound- his most recent one, a parting gift from his brother and their last link after the fool fell victim to his own madness and became a human- crushed him much faster, much harder than any destruction, than any war, any unification or separation. Pain was something usual for the nations, however on this scale could only mean something bad.<p>

They, the flashes of pain, begun the moment he separated from his brother. And it was Lovino's fault.

The first hints were the changes in his behavior. Surprisingly enough, they were- for both him and those surrounding the two brothers- good changes. He begun socializing with people more, talking with nations and humans alike. Hearing them, actually listening to them and their opinions. He even started philosophical conversation with Heracles, discussing life, ethics, actions and reactions. A nice, pleasing turn of events that no one doubted.

From then on trips with human became a habit. He would disappear for days, sometimes for weeks, others for months, on field trips to see and learn the world from different perspectives, to live an alternative way of life, with only a simple backpack filled with necessities, some slacks, t-shirts, a jacket and converse. And every time he would return, the clothes would be ruined. Dirty with mud and blood, ripped open in the knees, smelling horrible. When asked, the mud would be from the rain, the blood turned into tomato sauce, the rips would be from a sharp rock he happened to stumble upon and the smell from his own sweat.

For a few months it worked. The two felt like brothers and, after a long time, managed to bond, become a true family. Even though the eldest decided to move out and rent an apartment in Rome –one that, surprisingly, nobody had ever visited- he would still spend time with his brother, with his friends, never neglecting them. To Feliciano, this few months seemed like a dream he had given up, as a miracle he long for.

However, one day out of the blue- like in every such case- the dream was over and the miracle turned to be a fraud. It came with the excuse of a trip and it ended with a letter. A trip that never finished and a letter that ended everything, a trip with a destination no one knew and a letter of resignation. A resignation that led to a wound, a last gift, something to remember, from brother to brother, a wound that led us to this room, to where a pained boy crawls on the floor, trying to reach his phone, to call for help, to send a message before he loses consciousness. A wound that allows us to continue the story and witness the end of that, very first, old boy.


End file.
